red rum
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: He remembers calloused fingers and brittle bones and fragile hearts beating beating beating - red like the sea of spider lilies scattered across a blood-stained field. Skin against skin; the beginning of an end. \\ AkaKuro. Assassin!AU. [From the Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series]


_afternoon rain and i have been working on this since summer and actually finished it last month but lol i'm a procrastinating little fucker and have only been able to post this up now. i just want to say THANK YOU SO MUCH HA-CHAN FOR ALL YOUR HELP AND PATIENCE AND IDEAS. THIS WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN POSSIBLE WITHOUT YOU AND YOUR BEAUTIFUL BRAIN. 9K+ WORDS MAN LOOK AT WHAT WE HAVE CREATED. (a monster, that's what loljk idk i'm proud of what we've done together i just hope it sorta makes sense to the people reading it lol) This the first time i've ever done a collab fic, and so wooohooo congrats to us and our friendship and our love for akashi huehuehue :3_

Sorry for having disappeared from the fanfic scene for a while now, hopefully I'll be more productive once christmas break rolls in. I feel that the uni life has totally sapped my brain of actual creativity so hopefully I can think of things properly again once the stress of acad reqs goes away :)) (Also, I've joined a KageHina exchange event and I have absolutely no idea how I'm gonna do it but I'm gonna try my best haha lol). Anyhoo, I hope you guys enjoy this fic. Happy reading, everyone!

Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroko no Basuke. All rights go to Tadatoshi Fujimaki-sensei.

* * *

 _ **Yet each man kills the thing he loves**_

 _ **By each let this be heard**_

.

.

" _Know your place."_

 _His attacks came swiftly and by surprise, catching him off guard, nearly missing his jaw. The man was undefeatable. Impervious. Intermittent. Indomitable._

 _Akashi mutters a soft curse under his breath – a claim of victory, a mark of vengeance._

" _Your gaze is too high."_

 _The echo of a gunfire._

.

.

There are a thousand possibilities that are held in their futures. Some of which are unfathomable; others – that can only be realized.

.

.

" _Akashi."_

A voice calls out to him over the echo of the intercom. A pale boy with a mop of red hair looks up; veering his attention, a slight deviance of focus from the carefully arranged general tiles on the wooden oak board.

"Yes, Shintarou? What is it? You may come in."

The door opens at his command.

"Sorry, did I disturb you?" the man with green hair asks. "What were you doing?"

"You did, but no matter. Is this urgent? Please be quick. I'm playing."

" _Shogi?_ "

"No, Shintarou, _Monopoly_ ," the crimson boy replies blandly, a callous jab to his vice-chair's patience. "Of course, _shogi._ "

"By yourself?"

" _Against_ myself," the young heir answers coolly, perfectly, as though it were the most normal and ordinary thing in the world.

The emerald-haired boy stands aside, clearly unamused. He pushes his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and narrows his eyes; his expression is unfeeling, unfazed.

"I am but one man, Shintarou – not a single person, nor two nor three, nor fifteen, nor four." The gold general slides across the board; glissades diagonally forward, three steps to the front and then a single block towards the right. Akashi blinks once, twice – a crimson pupil dulled with the focus of observation, a halcyon eye shining with the glint and glimmer and ever-present thirst for glory. "And though I am only one person, within me are a million facets that you have yet to discover…some that maybe even _I_ have yet to know about."

"Should I even bother to ask wh—"

"This makes for good strategy," the young man interrupts. "It teaches me to analyze the different approaches needed to be taken to ensure a flawless victory. Which, as you already know, is expected for me as an heir to the Akashi family."

"I see," Midorima swallows. Two soft clicks of his Parker pen; he scrawls a note onto his clipboard before heaving a disgruntled sigh. "Excuse me, but it appears we are straying. Shall I move back to our main agenda? There is still some business that we must attend to and I feel that it requires your immediate attention."

"Ah, yes of course," Akashi replies as he hovers over the game board. He rests his chin atop curled fingers, eyes transfixed on the figure of the man before him. "Do proceed, Shintarou. What seems to be the issue at hand?"

His second-in-command hands him a folder – plops it down onto the table surface without batting an eyelash. It looks like parchment, brown and aged; the colour of coffee stains and the weariness of mahogany.

"Here are the case files that you requested. I already laid out the preliminary foundations during the supposed time of my dispatch."

"The surveillance cameras?"

"Yes, the lucky items have already been dispersed on site."

"Hmm," Akashi hums thoughtfully. "I see. And…?"

"And I am sorry for the sudden schedule impairment as well as my partner's carelessness during our previous disembarkment. I suppose that I am also at fault here for having been negligent of his behavior and tolerating such brash actions. My apologies; I will see to it that it will never happen again. You have my word."

Another hum. "Your partner, Kazuha…was it?"

" _Kazunari_ ," Midorima corrects. "Takao only used that alias as a _nom de guerre_ for infiltration purposes during our last mission."

"Ah, yes. Kazunari. I remember now. How is he, anyway?"

"A simple transverse fracture on his left wrist coupled with a sprained ankle. No head traumas, nor deficiencies of the spine. Expected recovery period ranges at an estimate of two to four months, depending on his cooperation with the treatment," the taller male explains. "He also sends his apologies. He told me to tell you that. In fact, his exact words were: _'it was my fault and not Shin-chan's so please don't be too angry with us I am sorry._ '"

"Oh? Well…I must also apologize," the vermillion-haired man murmurs before plastering on a polite, unmatched smile. "I'm afraid that I am not quite as forgiving."

Midorima halts, freezes in place; his face pale and eyes widening in horror. "Akashi—"

"I cannot control your temper, nor do I expect to placate your rage by feeding you with lies. Now, Shintarou, what would that speak of my character?"

"What are y—"

"I will be working you to the bone, thirty times more intensely, to make up for the trouble you have caused our company after all this is over," the young Akashi smiles, "and do send my regards to your partner."

Midorima nods, then heaves a rattled sigh. "Understood. In the meantime, you may refer this case to Kise's faction. Or perhaps Aomine's. I am sure Momoi will of great help in extracting information to prep them for the mission, what with her skills in data gathering and her position as the primary head of inquisition in that department."

Akashi construes the folder and its contents, unraveling the identity of their latest target for the next mission. He calls for Kouki, requests for a snack – such as some tofu, in addition to more tea.

 _Name: Kuroko Tetsuya_

 _Occupation: Writer (Full-time Novelist; Freelancer Journalist)_

 _Date of Birth: January 31, year unspecified_

 _Sign: Aquarius_

 _Blood Type: A_

 _Notes:_

 _-Lays claim to 1162 sq. ft. of land as his residence lot, an inheritance from his parents and a quarter-sized portion of their family's estate_

 _-Proud pet owner of a stray dog; 5 months old, breed unknown but is assumed to be a mix of Alaskan Malamute, Schipperke, and Shiba Inu influences_

 _-Last seen at a family restaurant abandoning a cola for a vanilla shake; target is unable to handle carbonated drinks_

 _-Has intricately branched out relationships in terms of underworld connections; his expansive network is due to the nature of his journalism business_

 _-Mainly covers articles featuring dark content such as meditated murder, serial killers, drug syndicates, and other related crimes_

 _-Ransom worth 83,000,000 in Yen, as per negotiations of client_

"Desired end time is within thirty days," Midorima reminds, "we only have a month. Please inform me who you want to refer this case to, so I may brief them accordingly."

The young heir abrogates his thoughts with a small wave of his hand. "I appreciate your offer, Shintarou, but that will be unnecessary. I will do it."

"What?!" the green-haired boy nearly shouts, aghast. "But company policy—"

"—states that all mission dispatches must be done in groups of at least two or more. Yes, I know. I am well aware. I was present when that was being decided," Akashi counters and finishes the statement off for him dully, resuming his game and cocking an eyebrow in mock askance. "But there is no need to worry, Shintarou. Least of all when it comes to me. I will see to this matter myself, thank you, and I will do so perfectly."

He directs his gaze onto the game board, moves the _kei-ma._ The knight is usheredforward in one single step; his crimson eye flickers underneath a shimmer of fluorescent light. _Checkmate._

Another win, another loss.

.

.

Akashi is escorted to the target's estate on the morning of a Monday, two weeks after a briefing meeting, a suitcase packed on hand and a weapon hidden in tow. The drive from Kyoto to Tokyo is a long one, but the roads are smooth enough to make the trip less displeasing. The young redhead does not fall asleep throughout a journey, bar the period he spent resting his tired eyes for an estimated duration of ten minutes, though his mind remains wide awake – immersed and preoccupied with murder tactics and infiltration strategies.

Ring.

Beep.

"Hello?"

" _S-S-Sei-Seijuuro-san,"_ Furihata's panicked voice screeches and nearly resonates over the communicator, all a nervous bundle of rattled nerves. _"A-are…are you s-sure you can h-h-handle this, b-boss? I…I'm so-sorry…I d-don't mean to be rude b-b-but it's…it's b-been a…a while s-since your last out—outfield mission a-and…uh—"_

"Silence, Kouki."

" _I…I'm s-s-s-sorry…"_

Akashi frowns greatly; the thick tone of discomfort seeps through his voice as he responds to his information dispatcher on the other end of the line.

"Take a deep breath and calm down. I apologize…I did not mean to lash out at you. I will not be able to vocalize a reply anymore when I am accompanied by the target's presence. Do not contact me unless it is extremely urgent. Rest assured, I will fulfil this mission quickly and successfully. Is that clear?"

" _Y-yes, Si…Sir."_

The car parks to a stop and Akashi steps outside; the grey of the pavement clashes greatly with the leather of his shoes. He looks up, makes his way towards a restaurant. The sign reads _Maji Burger._ The sidewalk is littered with people.

"Good," he mumbles softly into the receiver, "now remember, Kouki: I never fall short from victory."

Beep.

Click.

Akashi plasters on a smile.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Kuroko Tetsuya," he offers a greeting as he approaches a man in the nearby booth. "Let me buy you a drink."

Blue eyes blink, expression frozen in momentary confusion. The young spy-turned-bodyguard takes this chance to shove a small pill into the crook of his sleeve.

"Thank you…but there is no need for that."

"No. I insist," the other contends. "It is only natural that we start this off as gentlemen would. Allow me."

"But—" his employer rises from his seat to protest.

"Sit down, Tetsuya," Akashi instantly demands; though his tone remains warm and gentle, not the slightest bit fierce. "I'll order."

In the end, the younger man concedes. "I just want a vanilla shake, please."

"Yes," Akashi replies, mumbles in an air of passive nonchalance. "I know."

"How?" Kuroko is quick to ask, but by then the redhead's figure has long since muddled with the dispersed crowd as he falls in line. When Akashi returns shortly, roughly three minutes later, he carries a paper cup brimmed with iced tea for himself, as well as another cup bearing the other's requested beverage.

Kuroko accepts the drink gratefully, muttering a polite _thank you_ as he takes the cup with his pale hands and rests it on the table next to his notepad. Akashi slides in the booth and takes the seat across him. "Is there a reason as to why you requested we meet up here, Tetsuya?"

"I was doing research for an article I'm writing, but have already finished it and am now organizing what I have written so far. By the way, forgive me but I believe that I have not yet been able to quite catch your name. May I—"

"Oh? How rude of me, but I digress," Akashi remarks and extends his hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you. My name is Akashi Seijuuro."

"Ah, I see. The pleasure is all mine," the other takes a sip of his drink then answers with a smile. Kuroko's features are tinged a faint azure – the assassin notes – bright and clear the same shade as the sky. At the brush of their fingertips, Akashi ponders, briefly, on the notion of the heavens; wonders if Kuroko's hair would feel as soft as the promise of clouds that dwelt and lingered and hovered briefly above them - transient and fleeting in the brilliant vastness of rich blue.

Akashi traps these thoughts in the caged compartment of his chest, settles instead for a firm shake of their hands.

He was always quick to become attached.

"I look forward to being in your care, Akashi-kun."

The poison is still hidden, tucked away in his left sleeve's inner pocket.

.

They ride in Kuroko's car to head back to the estate. Their driver – Himuro Tatsuya, as Akashi recalled albeit irritably, slightly irked by the similarities of this stranger's name with his marked target – was a chatty man with hair like ebony, and a mole underneath his right eye. Kuroko tells him that the left one was injured, vision lost in battle during a previous intervention with a neighboring gang, after the journalist had published an article with a listed citation of their committed crimes. Akashi questions if the man Tatsuya had once been the other's guard back then.

"No," Kuroko responds with a shake of his head. "But Himuro-san always liked to help out with Kagami-kun's safeguarding duties every now and then. They are both very skilled fighters."

Akashi quirks a puzzled eyebrow at the mention of a new name.

"Kagami Taiga; he was my original bodyguard before I hired you. They're brothers."

"Hm..."

"Or perhaps it would be more clear to say they were step-brothers...I'm not sure of this myself. It's quite a long story, and I do not have very good grasp as to how foreign family policies work, but from what I can recall, the two of them used to live together in America."

Akashi inquires of the fate of Kagami Taiga, a low question muttered by hesitant lips. He assumes that if the man Himuro Tatsuya has been injured and a new bodyguard has been hired, there is a chance that the other had been lost in what appears to be a duel to the death.

"Oh no, he's perfectly fine," Kuroko shakes his head and says to him then. "Kagami-kun works in the kitchen now, and he is often assisted by Murasakibara-kun. You will meet them soon enough."

Kuroko then relays how Kagami injured himself during that incident, overexerting his legs in the middle of defense as the assaulters were very physical in their attempts of retaliation; however, he reassures the redhead, the other man has healed considerably since then. Though it is still unsure as to whether or not his former bodyguard could handle such rigorous work to defend the blue-haired boy on his own in cases of dire emergencies.

"I've tried hiring many guards these past few months, but they could not handle the toll of duties well enough on their own and would therefore resign in almost a week or less." Kuroko further explains, "I prefer only having one guard with me at all times, you see. I'm not very fond of always having to carry around a multiple array of surly individuals to compose my daily harem."

Akashi stiffens his smile, plastering it on more tightly despite the sudden change in the air's mood. "Pardon?"

"Excuse me, I misspoke. I believe having a variety of well-built men is good; the rotation of fresh faces always helps to spice things up."

"Er..."

"It was a joke, Akashi-kun," his employer explains despite the monotony of his voice and the deadpan expression on his face.

"Ah."

"The truth is, I was sold in the black market and enslaved as a child and since then have developed a phobia of males who come in groups of two or more."

"Uh—"

"Another joke, Akashi-kun."

"Ah."

"In reality, as a journalist, I would have many cases that require going incognito for observation purposes. It is easy for me to do so on my own, given that I have quite a low presence and am not easily noticed by other people. One guard is enough to ensure my safety. Having too many companions would disrupt me when I am on duty."

"I see," comes the assassin's reply, though he contemplates the possibility that his target's dark humour had also been a factor to his employer's series of failed relationships with his security personnel.

Kuroko turns to look at him in the eye suddenly, voice soft and the same, yet with a tone more serious and sullen than before. "I apologize for my remarks, Akashi-kun. It appears I have made you uncomfortable with my words. Please do not be discouraged by this interaction of ours."

"No, it is alright," Akashi says to him kindly. "I must admit, Tetsuya, you are quite perceptive of my feelings to have taken them into consideration regarding this matter."

"It comes with the job," he answers cleverly to the spy. "You, yourself, are also quite perceptive to have noticed me right away in the booth, Akashi-kun. If anything, I'm very glad to have hired you."

"Likewise, Tetsuya," he answers him back with a calculating smile, takes the compliment in stride. "It comes with the job."

.

.

At a quarter 'til noon, on the cusp of age five, Akashi remembers when his mother had still been alive.

The sky was a pale blue that contrasted starkly with the fiery red of his kite – the same shade as his hair, the same shade as his mother's hair – crimson blazing like rays of sun shining bright. At that time, the weather had been fair enough to call forth a bonding experience for precious memory-making between parent and child.

" _Sei-kun,"_ her gentle voice cooed, loosening the hold of the shawl she'd wrapped around her slender frame. _"We should head back inside soon, it's getting cold out. You'll catch a chill."_

" _In a while, mother,"_ he answered back. _"I'm still fine- oh… look mama! Look at it go!"_

The Lady Akashi gazed fondly at her child; the budding scion enthused with the simple joys of kite flying. The then-young Seijuuro pointed at his handcrafted toy, beaming, childlike innocence reflected in a toothy grin.

There were no clouds lingering in the firmament, nor rays or drops of liquid sunshine, but the gusts of wind were quickly picking up despite the absent, lacking promise or threats of a storm. A sudden gust hurled his kite into a nearby tree, hurtling it deep within the thick foliage. The paper craft was trapped in the sea of bird nests and twig branches, and when the little Akashi attempted to tug on the thread to retrieve his even littler aircraft, the feeble string of yarn had only snapped in retaliation.

Luckily, it had not been a tall tree that the kite had been caught on. But at such a short height and unable to overcome such a hurdle, the young heir resolved to seek assistance from his mother.

She returned later with the tattered paper craft and a hand hidden behind her back. The kite had been punctured by what Seijuuro believed had been an angry tree branch, and one of the plastic rods they had used for its skeletal framework had nearly broken in half. Still, his mother had looked at him with only a positive shine in her eyes.

" _Don't worry, sweetheart. There's no need to be upset. We can still fix it."_ She brought out the hand that she had concealed behind her figure, revealing a petite oval stone that she had cradled in her finger. _"But look at what I found! It's a sparrow's egg. This little darling was abandoned up there. Would you like for us to keep him?"_

 _Oh,_ the young Akashi realized - that was no stone; it was an egg. His crimson eyes glimmered in the light; curious and bedazzled by the small spring of life his mother had brought to him, nestled in the soft nook of her palms. The boy ogled the egg; the notion of caring for another was foreign to him, and the thought of doing so together with his mother was a prospect that appeared very much exciting to him. He nodded eagerly.

About five days later, the egg had hatched on the windowsill of his mother's library room in the mansion. The bird revealed itself to be a vibrant cobalt blue with flecks of snowy white. It reminded Seijuuro of the ocean, or perhaps even the sky. The soft tuft of its feathers was akin to that of a toddler's imagined feel of what it would be like to craft pillows from clouds.

" _Look, Sei-kun! What would you like to name her?"_

" _Ku-chan!"_ he beamed. _"Let's name her Ku-chan!"_

The kind matron coughed lightly before she waved it off, and smiled back at him warmly. _"Alright then. Let's keep Ku-chan a secret just between you and me… okay, sweetie? We'll take care of her, but don't tell your father about this."_

" _Of course, mother,"_ he replied with a little laugh, though he had failed to foresee that their promise of looking after it together would never have been realized.

.

.

 _ **Some do it with a bitter look**_

 _ **Some with a flattering word**_

 _._

 _._

Akashi Seijuuro's first job as Kuroko Tetsuya's bodyguard begins exactly four days after their initial meeting. It starts at the kitchen table, over a bowl of breakfast cereal (Kuroko's) and a cup of coffee (Akashi's).

"So tell me, Akashi-kun. How do you feel about shopping?"

"It is a pleasurable pastime, I suppose," the scarlet-haired assassin replies in between dainty sips of his macchiato. "In fact, I rather enjoy partaking in the socio-economical game of determining the worth of material assets gained in exchange for financial compensation myself. Negotiating for bargains makes for a good exercise for the mind."

"Would Akashi-kun like to come shopping with me, then?" a pair of curious turquoise eyes ask him innocently, gaze intent and eagerly awaiting a response.

Akashi quickly gulps the remainder of his drink in surprise. The coffee tastes sweet against his lips, but burns bitter when he swallows it down.

"Of course, I would."

"That's wonderful, Akashi-kun," Kuroko remarks with a voice as sweet as an angel's sigh. He finishes his breakfast, setting the porcelain bowl aside. "How about we go right now? I have plans for later and would like for you to accompany me then, but I'd rather we drop by Ginza first."

"Why, yes," the redhead smiles into his cup; a coy expression flashed towards his target, "it is my job to look out for your safety after all, Tetsuya."

.

Night falls and the two of them find themselves in front of the Kaijou Tower, in the midst of parked limousines and bourgeoisie crowds filtering in and out of the hotel vestibule. Akashi steps out from the vehicle – a silver coupe brought over, courtesy of Himuro – donned in a trim three-piece suit. It was a tailored item, black and sleek and adjusted to appropriate his body frame's fit, the only one in the store that the young heir found up to par with his standards of style.

(It also suited those of Kuroko's, the redhead soon discovers later on, when his employer offers to pay for his clothes instead – admitting that it would be a waste for such a nicely fit garment to be withdrawn from his possession due to the principles of rent.)

He rushes to the other side of the vehicle to hold the door open, as a blue-haired figure alights from the coupe. Kuroko is clad in a pale yellow dress with light pink rosettes trailing the straps around the area of his décolletage; his hair clipped with extensions and set to fall on his shoulders, the same shade as his turquoise tresses. A bow rests atop the corner of his left temple. Petite hands clothed with white lace daintily accept the firm grasp of a pair of sheer cotton.

"You look lovely tonight, _my lady_ ," the man with the crimson hair comments, planting a small kiss against the other's gloved fingers, brazen and unabashed.

Kuroko retracts his hand back, clearly disturbed, and recoils at his touch. "That was uncalled for, Akashi-kun. Kindly refrain from doing unnecessary things."

"Is that so? Rest assured, I was not lying. Need I remind you that this was your plan, Tetsu… _Tetsuko_ ," the assassin grins, mismatched eyes glimmering in the moonlight. "Now indulge me, if you will. It will make our roles more believable as we play things out for the night."

Akashi reaches out a hand to escort the journalist towards the hotel; Kuroko takes it grimly, silently, without a word.

"Good evening, welcome to Kaijou Tower," the guard welcomes them at the entrance, hair blue like navy and dark as midnight. "Please give me your name and I will confirm your attendance on the guest roster."

 _Aomine Daiki,_ Akashi recalls in an instant, pursing his lips and ordering to his subordinate to remain silent. The tanned man acknowledges his superior's presence and assents not to say a word. Kuroko fakes a stumble.

He falls on Aomine.

"Woah, easy there!" the security guard instantly catches the pretend-drunk princess. Kuroko's padded chest leans heavily against the tall man's torso, as he looks up to face him through mascara-lidded eyes. The petite blue-haired holds him by the arm, draws his eyes further down to emphasize the illusion created by the dress' stuffing, while Aomine struggles to fight back the creeping blush on his cheeks at the sudden onslaught of indecorous thoughts. "You alright, Miss?"

Akashi struggles to bite back a smile.

"Excuse us, it appears my mistress has had too much to drink tonight. Allow me to escort her to her room. We are currently residing on the twenty-eighth floor, unit G."

"Yes, of course," he clears his throat. "You are permitted entry. By all means, go ahead."

 _Don't tell Satsuki about this,_ his expression pleads.

The redhead replies in a solemn exchange of glances and a brightened look in his golden eye.

"You have my thanks," Akashi says, bidding the other false guard a goodbye of some sort. "Do carry on with your duties, and have a pleasant evening."

 _Momoi-san? Why, I'd never._

A tip of his hat, Aomine sidesteps noiselessly to allow the two to make their way inside. "Same to you, sir."

They head straight to the main ballroom, surrounded by iced buckets of champagne and crystal-studded chandeliers. The pseudo-couple pushes through seas of people dressed in double-breasted suits and extravagant _Vera Wang_ gowns. Akashi recognizes a few fair faces from his family's own share of lavish business parties, and ensures that his distance is well enough to keep himself from being noticed. Fame is not a friendly thing to those who thrive on working in the shadows.

"That seems to have gone easier than expected," Akashi teases. "You make a good girl, Tetsuya. Have you ever considered a career in _Kabuki_? Your figure would make for a splendid _onnagata."_

"Let us not bother ourselves with such trivial pursuits, Akashi-kun," Kuroko mutters under short pants of breath. His stamina has already fallen low in the physical department, and running through marble floors in heels was not doing much of anything in the poor boy's favor. "Mayuzumi-san should be on his way to the lounge as we speak," he says as they walk briskly through the mezzanine hall, ushering themselves to the west wing.

But the lounge is empty upon their arrival. Kuroko fumbles through the room, discarding neither thought nor reason, and instantly springs for any sort of evidence that can be used as material for his upcoming article. He stumbles across a code-locked briefcase tagged with the grey-haired suspect's name, and decides to wrack his brains in an attempt to open it and reveal its contents.

"Tetsuya, we should hurry," Akashi warns him warily. Outside the hall, the faint patter of footsteps can be heard.

"Just a moment, Akashi-kun. I've almost got it."

" _Tetsuya_ ," Akashi urges as the other boy struggles to manage a response, and the door springs open before either of them can utter another word.

They find themselves trapped in the closet within mere seconds of the unknown personae's arrival.

"Akashi-kun," Kuroko whispers, "can you please move?"

"I apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm afraid there is no other space left for me to move to."

"Ah, please excuse me for having demanded such an impossible request then."

"Why, Tetsuya? …Is there a problem?"

His response comes in a curt and strained: "Your leg."

"Pardon?" the scarlet-headed boy raises an eyebrow at the other's remark in confusion. His knees threaten to buckle underneath their weight; the taller man shifts his stance lightly, a soft rap against the wood of the furniture wall. "My leg? What of it?"

"Your leg is digging into my back and it hurts, Akashi-kun."

Akashi answers him coolly, "That's not my leg, Tetsuya."

"Oh," comes Kuroko's answer as he stiffens, figure trapped in the corner of the cabinet. His face flushes slightly.

" _Numbers Three and Six died, but the rest are still at a standstill,"_ a voice begins to mutter to nobody in particular. Neither Akashi nor Kuroko can hear a response however, and so they assume that the man must be on the phone. Kuroko peers through the cabinet shutter's crevice, the small gap between the doors - his only source of a view. _"How's Twelve?"_

Akashi makes a move and stuffs his hand within the depths of his trousers. The bodyguard fishes out an item from his pocket, but from what he can see in the confines of the darkness, Kuroko cannot tell exactly what it is.

(He does, however, notice that his back is feeling better now that the item has been put away.)

 _Oh_.

"Please remain quiet, Tetsuya," the redhead urges his master. Akashi clutches onto the item with a firm grasp and it gleams in his fingers, a streak of silver in the dim light. Another hand grips onto Kuroko's shoulder and tightens its hold; his arm wraps itself around the boy's smaller frame. "It appears they are coming closer."

"— _getting worse. Two and Eighteen…showing signs of recovery…but…don't know… part…reacting to…drug…"_

The grey-haired man chatters amicably, his phone pressed against his left ear. He walks nearer then seats himself on the couch of the lounge and proceeds to open his briefcase, the shuffle of papers muffles the sound of the man's voice and Kuroko strains his ears to comprehend the man's words beyond the noise.

" _Increase…dosage of…two pills… medi…consumption-_ what _do you mean she died after level four?"_ The shuffle of papers stops suddenly. The man's voice is shrill now, no longer the stable tender tone it was seconds before. _"Are you an idiot, Hayama?! That girl's family hasn't paid us of their dues yet. That subject was supposed to last until another month or so. Personally, I don't really care, but think about where we're going to get the money for tha—"_

The door slams close and the air turns stale; the atmosphere falls empty and rings with silence. Akashi waits for another ten minutes before he deems it safe.

"The coast is clear," he exclaims with a breathy exhale, the sound of a haggard yet relieved sigh.

"That is nice… Would you mind letting go of me now, Akashi-kun?" comes the other's monotonous reply. "Despite my disguise, I am not as frail as I appear. I am a boy and am perfectly capable of handling myself without a human shield."

"Yes, of course, excuse me," Akashi loosens his grip and lets go.

"Also, as much as I appreciate your quick thinking in concealing us from the enemy, Akashi-kun, I believe you failed to take into consideration that the storage mechanisms used in hotels such as these contain auto-lock features." Kuroko rattles the cabinet doors for emphasis. "We're trapped unless someone else happens to open the closet from the outside."

"Nonsense, Tetsuya." Akashi cocks an eyebrow, a bemused expression falling on his features. His voice is reduced to a softened whisper in the other boy's ears; Kuroko squints his eyes in an attempt to decipher the meaning behind his mien. "I did not forget."

Akashi hovers over him and Kuroko catches a whiff of the other man's perfume, coalescing scents of wood and spice. His mind pictures fields of spider lilies in an ocean of red, and the blue-eyed boy wonders what it would be like to bury himself like this in their aroma.

"Akashi-kun," he mutters, feels the heat of his cheeks dyed the same shade as the flower. It is suffocating. "You're too close—"

"Just give me a moment," he reminds his target. The spy leans closer, bodies nearly pressed together as his fingers maneuver the lock. His eyes catch a glimpse of the nape of Kuroko's neck, pale skin luminescent even beneath the dimmed fluorescent light. The weapon screams at the mercy of his hands, begs for vestiges of its blade to mark itself on his target's vulnerable existence. Closer, closer –

 _Click._

"It's done. We're free to go."

"Thank you, Akashi-kun," Kuroko brushes off the dust from his dress. "What did you use to get us out of there?"

"Oh, nothing really," the suited man smiles. "Just my card."

(How fitting it would be to compare the boy to such a flower, Kuroko thinks - subtle beauties concealed in cunning eyes, amid shrouds of mystery and crimson gold.)

.

.

That night, Akashi dreams. And for the first time in a long time, he finds, he is terrified.

It is not the jittery type of terror that leaves one's heart pumping, pressure rising and bursting with the force of sheer adrenaline, no. Akashi is used to that - has grown far too familiar and much well acquainted with the feeling that he has practically come to terms with it the same way he would welcome a dosage of ecstasy. It gives him a pleasant sort of thrill, this unique source of excitement; an odd experience that parallels only to the fervors of _shogi_ , and is only so perfectly well suited to the exquisite and peculiar tests of 'refined' men such as he. He welcomes that sort of panic, considers it as a special source of euphoria, even.

But this moment is different. The possibility of it looms over him like never before, and Akashi finds himself trapped in this fear, a newfound phobia of sorts – his body frozen in shock but mind programmed haywire to a strange yet unnerving sense of calm. This nightmare brings in him to life a fear of a new kind. It is menacing. Insidious. Distinct.

He dreams of running through an alleyway.

Kuroko is dashing away from him; Akashi hot on his heels, and he need only push himself a little further to close in on their gap. The distance between them shrinks with every panting breath and every bead of sweat that forms around the philtrum above his lips and in the glistening sheen atop his forehead. His mind races like his rising pulse, the thudding of his heartbeat echoes loudly in his ears, and his vision narrows in on his goal, blurring the sights and the views of his surroundings and all else until the only thing his red and gold irises can see is the figure of his target, transfixed, an arm's length away from his grasp.

They make it to an intersection; the road is caught in a traffic jam. A gang of motorcycles whizzes past them, the rumble of one engine comes past too near and too loud, and Akashi, caught up in the moment and the tenacity of his survival instincts, grabs hold of his target and spins him to safety.

The motorcyclist halts and alights from his vehicle, their three figures hovering suspended at a point standstill on the sidewalk. Akashi shoves Kuroko aside to stand behind him, claiming his treasure like a solitary possession, marking his target with the sole right of being _his_ alone to kill.

 _Who are you,_ he demands. The target Kuroko makes neither a move nor attempt to get away from him - at least for now - but when the cyclist proceeds to strip away his helmet and reveal his identity in that instant, what happens instead is beyond the redheaded tactician's initially thought-out expectations.

Akashi is greeted by the sight of a familiar mop of cerulean hair and the most breathtaking shade of the bluest of eyes.

Kuroko stands before him, and Akashi looks back to see the same figure of the boy at his behind. Two replicas, mirror images, reflections of light and shadow and the air of frailty withheld in even the strongest of glass, together suddenly in a moment far beyond him and the capacity of his rattled comprehension to take in all at once.

A pool of dread settles in his stomach, and when Akashi turns back forward to look at the be-helmeted figure of his former target, he recognizes the familiar image of silver steel and polymer frames cradled in the motorcyclist's gloved hands. The assassin smiles dimly as he lets go of his other target's hand, welcomes the abrupt fate of his life's snipped thread whilst reading the muttered calling of an end mouthed silently by the other's cracked lips:

 _This is my farewell to you, Akashi-kun._

The bullet shoots through the air, lands on the pale margin between his clavicle and his neck – and for once, his frigid interior is replaced instead with a searing heat and his pulsing heart. Volumes of plasma ebb through his veins, leaving his body in rivulets that trickle down his skin, the strength of his consciousness rapidly growing weaker and weaker within that short expansion of time. Blood escapes from its residence in his viscera the same way Kuroko escapes from his fingers, slipping through the tightened, trembling clutches of his grasp, until the assassin is left alone in the end with only the company of the splattered pavement and the lonesomeness of somber thoughts.

And Akashi wonders if this is what death must feel like by his hands for his victims – no pain, only warmth.

.

When he wakes, Akashi realizes that it is not the first time he has considered himself to be a coward.

(In fact, he tells himself, it is the second.)

.

The first time Akashi had ever felt fear was on the brink of a Wednesday sunrise, midyear through the age of seven, and his mother was on the brink of no longer being alive.

Consumption.

She had been stolen from him by a plague; and as soon as the doctor had diagnosed her malady, the young child had been prohibited access from coming into contact or even entering the quarters of his maternal parent. Gone were soothing touches of nurturing hands, gentle whispers of half-hushed lullabies; replaced instead by hollowing cheekbones and raspy coughs, muffled by shut doors and painted walls, the pain of her torture only concealed through the sheer veils of surgical masks and blood-stained handkerchiefs.

In about two months after the pulmonologist's prognosis, the young Akashi had woken up to the sight of cloth laid over a pale made-up face, and the noise of heavy footsteps by workmen hauling in a custom-made casket. His mother had been replaced by a skeleton, so fragile and worryingly thin, and all that was left of her in Seijuuro's mind were nostalgia-hazed memories, and tearing, blurry eyes.

He'd barely even had the chance to see her once more, much less speak to her again.

To this day, what scares Akashi the most is not an accusation of murder, nor a warrant of arrest. Neither is it the probability of suicide. He is not fazed by the plausible existence of an underworld or an afterlife, by pain perceived as the means to an end. Rather, what frightens him most is the threat of goodbyes.

Or rather, the lack thereof.

.

.

Kuroko kisses him on Friday - two weeks after moving in - when dusk has fallen and the moon has settled, low and solemn, in the evening sky.

.

" _Need I inform you that you only have sixteen days left to fulfill this mission?"_ Midorima's stern voice warns him over the earpiece. _"That is three hundred eighty-four hours, Akashi. Taking into consideration your periodical requirements for sleeping and eating, it would be lessened by exactly thirty-seven point five percent, leaving you with only two hundred forty-four…"_

"I see you have improved on your computational arithmetic, Shintarou,"his superior quips. "What is your purpose for telling me this?"

" _To remind you of your duties, clearly. This is taking much too long, even – or rather, especially – for the likes of you, Akashi; it's about time I send reinforcements. Must I brief Furiha—"_

"No," Akashi quickly snarls into the receiver. "I'd rather that Kouki remain at headquarters. You understand. This mission will be over in due time, and I will see to it that Kuroko Tetsuya will be dealt with accordingly. Do not forget that I am absolute; the target shall be eliminated by my hands, Shintarou, and mine alone."

Beep.

" _But Aka—"_

Click.

"Hello, Akashi-kun," a voice calls out to him from behind, and the assassin stops in his tracks. Kuroko, clad in a light sweater and beige corduroys, greets him with a faint bow. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere in particular," the redhead replies, voice nonchalant as he turns to face his employer, eyeing the man with a brief air of suspicion. The other boy looks stoic and remains unfazed. Akashi only sighs. "I just returned from the kitchen to request for my dinner, Tetsuya. Good evening, by the way," he returns the salutation. The time now is a quarter past six.

"Ah, is that so?" the blue-haired boy replies dully, his voice a slow drawl. "I see." Akashi notes how the writer's eyes are glossed over, burdened with the weight of weariness and of words; the threat of impending deadlines hovering over him like May clouds and promises of rain.

"How goes your writing?" he inquires. "You've been hard at work hunched over your manuscript for the past few days, Tetsuya. Have you finished your article already?"

Kuroko shakes his head. "It's not an article this time, Akashi-kun. I'm writing a novel."

"A novel? I see. What genre?"

"A post-apocalyptic romance."

"That seems interesting."

"To be honest, I find myself in quite a predicament," Kuroko says with a sigh, and rubs his tired eyes. His figure wilts from where he stands. "It's a struggle, really."

"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Akashi offers the pale boy. "What's troubling you, Tetsuya?"

"The current scene I'm working on," the blue-eyed boy explains, "I admit I'm having some difficulty finding the right words to write it out."

"And what kind of scene is that?" the spy inquires.

"A kissing scene."

"Hm," the redhead hums thoughtfully. "I see—"

"Would Akashi-kun be willing to help me?" Kuroko asks suddenly and tilts his head up to face him.

"Of course, Tetsuya. It's actually quite simple," Akashi says with a smile. "You begin by setting the mood. Say, for example, in this post-apocalyptic world, two lovers are seeking refuge in the confines of an abandoned building."

"The moon is pale and its light streams through the crevices of the window," the writer augments and the killer nods in approval, takes a step closer and reaches out to offer his outstretched hand. Kuroko takes it.

"May I have this dance?" he asks him with a whisper, and the two of them sway slowly in time to their illusionary aria.

"Somewhere," faintly, he hums, recalling the melody of a long-forgotten song, "the boy will hold his lover's frame in his arms as he starts off with a waltz, and they'll spin—"

"And they'll flit—"

"And they'll dip—"

"And they'll pause—"

"And they'll kiss—"

"May I...?" Kuroko begins to say, lashes fluttering to a near close. He leans into his touch as the redhead draws him closer, hands tangled in the other's hair; gaze falling as does his breaths, like tender wisps on the other's pale skin. "Akashi-kun?"

He stops.

(Akashi Seijuuro falls in love the morning after that.)

.

.

The faint clink of china clatters on the table surface, the aroma of tea wafts through the air; four figures sit _seiza_ within the confines of a tatami-matted room. Porcelain touches his lips and he takes a sip; it tastes of roasted tealeaves and brown rice – memoirs and vestiges of a liquefied earth.

His ears pick up the sound of shuffling footsteps, notices the faint silhouettes of male figures beyond the shoji screen. There is not much else for him to see beyond the large figure of the man called Nebuya, tanned, brawny, and sitting at the far end of the room, a living barrage to their only door. Akashi turns his attention instead to the sight of _Ukiyo_ prints and _Sumi-e_ paintings on worn scrolls.

"With regards to the responsibilities and duties entailed in being a leader, how do you feel about your new position as _kumicho_ , Mibuchi-san?" the journalist asks. His addressee is clad in a striped yukata and maroon shawl; black hair falling straight down below his jaw. He beams cordially and proceeds to deliver his response, weaves tales and notions of codes of honor and tradition. Kuroko sips his tea and jots notes down in his memo. Akashi leans his back against the wall, casts his gaze away from the two and eyes the turned-over photo frames resting on ochre tabletops and replete bookshelves.

"What was your relationship with the previous successor?"

"We were very close," he answers, revealing a worn photo of a young teen and an old man. They're both grinning into the camera, sitting on a boat deck, fishing rods tucked at the side. The adolescent's black hair is damp; tinges of his dragon tattoo peeking out from the short sleeve of his left arm. "We would spend time together to go fishing every month."

A single picture of the group hangs crookedly on the wall – the man, Mibuchi, seated in the center, a calm smile on his face; his underlings surrounding him, tight grimaces on theirs – traces of dust discordant with the sleek rectangular frame. Akashi assumes it must be new.

"Earlier, during the tour you gave us of the place, I noticed that there weren't any photos of your predecessor, Shirogane-san, located anywhere. Why is that?"

"Right now we are all in a difficult phase of adjustment and mourning," Mibuchi replies hastily, wiping a stray tear away from the corner of his eye. "We are still grieving the loss of the former boss' death, and seeing his face in photographs is still very difficult for us at this time. I am sure you understand that even us men can be prone to delicate emotional states."

"Yes, of course," Kuroko responds, his voice resounding almost thinly in the trepid air. "I understand. Please excuse my rudeness, let us move on."

The writer proceeds to ask him questions such as _How is your relationship with the public? Your brethren? The police?_ which the yukata-clad man answers lineally; undeviating and with a practiced sense of reservation. The queries rally back and forth. Kuroko Tetsuya is relentless in his pursuit, and Mibuchi Reo is unyielding with his resolve.

"There have been rumours," Kuroko locks the yukata-clad man's gaze and says solemnly, as the crow flies, "that you had been responsible for staging the previous successor's death…is this true?"

The larger man, Nebuya, rises from his seat in a second and grabs Kuroko's collar. He shoves him against the wall and backs him into a corner, eyes ablaze and breathing heavy; his too-small blazer straining to manage his build under the sudden movements. Kuroko gasps for air and struggles to breathe, fumbling in an attempt to loosen the other's hold.

"He would never do such a thing how dare you accuse our leader of su—"

"I would appreciate if you do not treat my master so impudently," Akashi remarks and holds him at gunpoint. "Kindly loosen your hold and do not dare touch him again,"

"You heard him, release the boy. Let us handle this matter as gentlemen would," Mibuchi orders Nebuya. Akashi notes the steady pitch of his voice, so pompous and yet so sure, a tenor unabashed with the essence of confidence. It sounds mockingly saccharine.

"I'm dreadfully sorry," he apologizes. "Are you unhurt? Eikichi can be quite an impulsive brute at times. But it is true, what he says, that I played no role in the previous successor's death. None of us did. It had been an unfortunate accident."

"I see, then I believe we are finished for the day. On behalf of _Seirin Weekly,_ I would like to say thank you very much for accepting this interview," Kuroko brushes off the dirt from his clothing sleeves, addresses the yukata-clad man warmly with a smile. He bows. "I am very honored to be able to speak with you today, Mibuchi-san. Thank you for your time."

He turns to face Akashi, makes a gesture that they leave. They are escorted to the door, courtesy of Nebuya.

"Ah, one last thing before we go, Mibuchi-san," Kuroko says and looks at him straight in the eye, "I happen know that you weren't born into the business of the yakuza since the start, so…who are you really?"

The yukata-clad man only smiles back in return.

"Do come again and ask me next time, Kuroko-kun. I believe we are finished for the day."

"Of course," he bows. "Then I will humbly accept your invitation. Until next time, Mibuchi-san."

They drive back home in silence. Kuroko falls asleep on his shoulder, zones out dead to the rumble of the car.

(Akashi steadies his grip of the pistol in his pocket, wonders the possibilities if perhaps right now he could have pulled the trigger.)

.

.

Akashi did not feel fear when he instigated his first murder.

Ku-chan dies by his hands, eight months after the morning of his mother's funeral. A pair of rusted scissors – well worn, well loved – against gouged eyes and dissected chests, caught in a whirlwind of battered feathers and angry tears. Blue against red; the colour of noontime skies is tainted with flecks of a young sparrow's blood.

(Six hours later that same day, Akashi had attempted to fly the kite again.)

(He recovered it from his wooden chest, where they had previously stored it for safekeeping, after his mother worked her magic with scotch tape and Elmer's glue. He brushed off a blanketed layer of fine dust, pressing his fingers against the tape to re-firm its stickiness against the surface of the handicraft. After a while, he finally deemed it strong enough to bring it with him as he headed outside.

The time then was half an hour past five, and the red of the kite blended well with the orange-scarlet of the sun setting in the sky. He had waited for this hour for quite a while now – the young child did not long to bask himself underneath a blanket the same colour as the feathers of his former pet's corpse.

Akashi had felt no remorse, however; didn't even bother to think as his mind drifted aimlessly with the wind. He spent a good ten minutes letting the small toy dance along with the breeze before the airstreams eventually dwindled down. He planned to let this moment be the last memory he would have with his craft; destined to be cast away and thrown in the direction of the estate's garden, burying it together with the bird's plucked carcass.

And then, just like the dying gales of dusk in the setting sun's sky, the kite, too, fell and fluttered straight to the ground.)

But he knows very well, that even back then, he had still been a coward.

.

.

"So when are you going to kill me?" Kuroko asks him then, three days until the end time, between stolen kisses and gasping breaths. Hands run through the other's limbs like threads of time tugging on his heart's sleeves and its fraying edges, unraveling further and further until he comes undone.

(He'd never expect to see him here with his eyes a brilliant shade of bright; lips parted open – so quick and desperate and impossibly eager to please.)

"I haven't decided yet," Akashi replies, his voice a soft whisper. He doesn't bother to feign innocence; neither does he attempt to conceal the glimmer of his golden eye, nor the sadness tucked in shrouds of crimson.

"Why?" he questions, "do you want to know?"

Kuroko stares back at him and wonders aloud, "Do I not have the right to ask?"

The redhead hums. "Fair enough."

"You know, the one thing I haven't figured out is where you keep your knives," Kuroko tells him then, bright doe eyes peeking out playfully from beneath his bangs. Mismatched irises return his gaze and regard him charily, skimming over the other boy's features.

"Trade secret," Akashi smiles, then takes his lips. "You understand."

"Alright. I won't pry."

"Tetsuya…"

"Yes?"

"Are you angry with me for lying to you?"

"No."

"Do you not feel betrayed?"

"Of course not."

Kuroko turns to face him and smiles gently. They lay there, spent, when the heterochromatic spy looks him in the eye and reads the words he'd almost missed.

 _I always knew._

Then Akashi laughs, cradles the target in his hold. Another minute, an exchange of breaths. He buries himself in the other's hair, thinks of rippling waters and reflected moonlight, calls to mind his memories of noontime skies.

He remembers.

"Are you afraid?" the assassin murmurs, amidst tangled limbs and sweat-damp sheets, his voice honeyed sweet yet laced with poison. Kuroko stills for a moment – a pause, he lingers – then shakes his head.

"I know I'll die soon," the blue-eyed boy answers, almost trembles in his hold. "I'd rather it be by you."

"Good," he murmurs and leans closer until their foreheads press together; tastes the flavor of salt and tears on the other's pale skin. Kuroko feels frail in his fingers, fragile like a sparrow Akashi once cupped in the palms of his hands.

"And you, Akashi-kun?" Kuroko asks him, breathless, as the taste of copper fills his mouth. Skin against skin; the beginning of an end. Scattered petals like seas of spider lilies splaying quickly across the sheets. He reaches for the blade. Akashi steals a kiss.

 _Are you afraid?_

The question dies on his lips.

.

.

 _ **The coward does it with a kiss**_

 _ **The brave man with a sword**_

* * *

Thank you for reading and please leave a review. It would really mean a lot, and I (as well as afternoonrain) would definitely be happy to hear from you guys! :) Have a nice day~

**bold lines were taken from the poem, "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" by Oscar Wilde. :D

**The red spider lily is a sign that autumn has arrived, but in Japan, the higanbana is also known as the death flower. This name can also refer to 'the other shore'; its bright colours said to guide souls into the afterlife. An aspect that presumably explains its use at funerals. And if that wasn't enough, another story is that red spider lilies bloom along the paths of departing lovers. Companions who for one reason or another are destined to never meet again. [src: wordpress . tokyotimes. org]f

**as you can see i'm really skjadlgfhlsgsfucking horrible at summaries HAHAHAH

(((i am a troll but woohoo for vague endings)))


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